
Pass \ t\b oZ2.. 

Book, ._ 



)§e3 



JULIAN, 



A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 



BY MARY RUSSELL MITFORD, 



4 



NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM B, GILLEY, 

No. 92 BROADWAY. 

182? 



/67ff^- 



// 



.# 



^. 



wIlLFAM CHARLES MACREADY, Esq. 

WITH HIGH ESTJiEM FOR THOSE 

il-VDOWMENTS WHICH HAVE CAST NEW LUSTRE 0> 

HIS ART ; 

IVITH WARM ADMIRATION TOR THOSE POWERs 

WHICH HAVE INSPIRED, 

A-VD THAT TASTE WHICH HAS FOSTERED, THE TRAGIC 

DRAMATISTS OF HIS AGE ; 

^viTH HEARTFELT GRATITUDE FOR THE ZEAL WITH 

WHICH HE BEFRIENDED 

THE PRODUCTION OF A STRANGER, 

tuR THE JUDICIOUS ALTERATIONS WHICH Bt 

SUGGESTED, AND FOR 
, HE ENERGYj THE PATHOS, AND THE SKILL, 

WITH WHICH 

HJJ MORE THAN EMBODIED ITS PRINCIPA) 

CHARACTER ; 

Eixin EvaQttis 

tS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATE 1>, 
BY 

TIIE ALTHOl; 

2 A 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The Story and Characters of the lollowing Tra- 
gedy, are altogether fictitious. Annabel's cautions 
to silence in the first Scene, and the short dialogue 
between her and Julian, after he awakens, will be 
recognised by the classical reader as borrowed 
from the fine opening of the Orestes of Euripides ; 
the incident of uncovering the body in the last 
Act, is uFso taken from the Ejectra of Sophocl*"]. 
Of any other intentional imitation, the Author is 
unconscious. 

She has now the pleasant task of conveying her" 
acknowledgments to the whole of the Performers, 
for the zealous co-operation which has so much 
contributed to the success of the Play. To the 
talents of Miss Foote, Miss Lacy, Mr. Abbott, and 
Mr. Bennett, she is more especially indebted — and 
to Mr. Macready beyond all. That it has been 
honoured by the particular approbation of such a 
judge, and has given occasion to one of the most 
splendid exertions of such an Actor, will ever be 
the proudest distinction of Julian. \ 



CHARACTERS. 



ALPHONSO, King of Sicily, a boy, disguised » ajisyFOOTK 



as Theodore, 



The DUKE of MELFI, Uncle to Alphonso»»», nipwMii'TT' 
and Regent of the Kingdom, - - 1 ^"- BENNETT. 

JULIAN, Melfi's son, Mr. MACREADY 

COUNT D'ALBA, a powerful Nobleman, - Mr. ABBOTT. 
VALORE, > C Mr. BAKER, 

LEANTI, > Sicilian Nobles, < Mr. EAGERTON. 

CALVI, S I Mr. CHAPMAN. 

PAOLO, Julian's servant, - - - - Mr. LEY. 
BERTONE, Servant to Count D'ALBA, - Mr. COMER. 
RENZI, an old huntsman, - - - - Mr. MEARS. . 
An ARCHBISHOP. 



Nobles, Prelates, Officers, Guards, Murderers, &e. 
ANNABEL, Julian's Wife, . - - - Miss LACY. 

The Scene is in and near Messina; the time of action two days 



FKOLOGUK, 

WRITTEN BV A FRIENT>- 

SPOKEN BY MR. CONNOR. 

They who in Prologues for your favours ask, 
Find every season more perplex their task ; 
Though doubts and hopes, and tremblings do 

not fail, 
The points fall flatly, and the rhymes grow stale; 
Why should the Author hint their fitting parts, 
In all the pomp of verse, to " British hearts ?*' 
Why to such minds as yours with ardour prajs 
For more than justice to a first essay ? 
What need to show how absolute your power ? 
What stake awaits the issue of the hour- 
How hangs the scale 'twixt agony and joy. 
What bliss you nourish, or what hopes de- 
stroy ? — 
All these you feel ; — and yet we scarce can 

bring 
A Prologue to " the posey of a ring." 
To what may we allude ? — Our plot untold 
T<? no great chapter from the times of old ; 



XU PitOLOGUE. 

On no august association rests 5 

But seeks its earliest home in kindly breasts,— 

Its scene, as inauspicious to our strain, 

Is neither mournful Greece, nor kindling Spain, 

But Sicily— where no defiance hurl'd 

At freedom's foes may awe the attending world. 

But since old forms forbid us to submit 

A Play without a Prologue to the Pit ; 

Lest this be missed by some true friend of plays, 

Like the dull colleague of his earlier days ; 

Thus let me own how fearlessly we trust 

That you will yet be mercifully just. 



JULIAN 



ACT J. 

SCENE I. 

Jin apartment in the royal palace, Julian sleep" 
ing on a couch, Annabel. 

Annabel. No ; still he sleeps ! 'Twas but the 
myrtle bud 
Tapping against the casement, as the wind 
Stirred in the leafy branches. Well he loved 
That pleasant bird-like sound, which, as a voicCj 
Summon'd us forth into the fresher air 

Of eve or early morn. Ah ! when again 

And yet this sleep is hopeful. For seven nights 
He has not tasted slumber. Who comes here ? 

Enter Alfonso as Theodore. 

The gentle page ! Alas, to wake him now ! 
Hush, Theodore ! Tread softly — softlier, boy I 

Alf. Doth he still sleep ^ 

Ann. Speak lower. 

Aff, Doth he sleep ? 
F 



14 JULIA-N. [acI I. 

Attn. Avoid the couch ; come this way ; close 
to me. 
He sleeps. He hath not moved in ail (he hours 
That thou hast been away. 

Alf. Then we may hope ; 
Dear lady, we may hope. 

Ann. Alas ! Alas ! 
See how he lies, scarce breathing. Whiist 1 

hung 
Over his couch 1 should have thought him dead, 
But for his short and frequent sighs. 

Alf. Ah me ! 
Not even in slumber can he lose the sense 

Of that deep misery ; and I he wakes 1 

Dost thou not see the quivering mantle heave 
With sudden motion ? 

Ann. Thou hast wakened him. 
Thy clamorous grief hath roused him. Hence I 
Begone ! Leave me I 

Alf. And yet his eyes are closed. He sleeps. 
He did but move his hand. 

Ann. How changed he is I 
How pale ! How wasted t Can one little week 
Of pain and sickness so have faded thee, 
My princely Julian ! But eight days ago 
There lived not in this gladsome Sicily 
So glad a spirit. Voice, and step, and eye. 
All were one happiness ; till that dread hour, 
When drest in sparkling smiles, radiant and 

glowing 
With tender thoughts, he flew to meet the King 
And his great father. He went forth alone : 
Frenzy and grief came back with him. 



i F-NE I.] .JUrJAV 13 

Alf. And I, 
Another grief. 

Arm. Thou wast a comforter. 
All stranger as thou art, hast thou not shared 
My watch as carefully, as faithfully 
As I had been thy sister ! Ay, and he 
If ever in this wild mysterious wo 
One sight or sound hath cheered him, it hath 

been 
A glance, a word of thine. 

Alf. He knows me not. 

Ann. He knows not me. 

Alf. I never heard before 
That 'twas to meet the King yon fatal night — 
Knowingly, purposely — How could he guess 
That they should meet ? What moved him to 
that thought ? 

Ann. Stranger although thou be, thou canst 
but know 
Prince Julian's father is the Regent here, 
And rules for his young kinsman King Alfonso ! 

Alf. Ay— Poor Alfonso ! 

Ann. Wherefore pity him ? 

Alf I know not — but 1 am an orphan too I 
I interrupt thee, lady. 

Ann. Yet in truth 
A gentle pity lingers round the name 
Of King Alfonso, orphaned as thou sayst, 
And drooping into sickness when he lost 
His father, ever since the mournful boy 
Hath dwelt in the Villa d'Oro. 

Alf. Hast thou seen him ? 



1 1> .rULIA^c j_ACT J. 

Ann. TiicKing? No. I'm of Naples. When 
Prince Julian 
First brought me here a bride, his royal cousin 
Was fixed beside his father's dying bed. 
I never saw him : yet 1 know him well ; 
For I have sate and listened, hour by hour, 
To hear my husband talk of the fair Prince, 
And his excelling virtues. 

Alf. Did he ?--Ah !~ 
But 'twas his wont, talking of those he loved, 
To gild them with the rich and burnish'd glow 
Of his own brightness, as the evening sun 
Decks all the clouds in glory. 

Ann. Very dear 
Was that young boy to Julian. 'Twas a friend- 
ship, 
Fonder than common, blended with a kind 
Protecting tenderness, such as a brother 
Might fitly show unto the younger born. 

Alf. Oh, he hath proved it ! 

Ann. Thou dost know them both ? 

Alf. I do. Say on, dear lady. 

A7in. Three weeks since 
The Duke of Melfi went to bring his ward 
Here to Messina 

Alf. To be crowned. They came not. 
But wherefore went Prince Julian forth to meet 
them? 

Ann. Father nor cousin came ; nor mes- 
senger, 
From Regent or from King ; and Julian chafed 
And fretted at delay. At length a peasant, 
,No liveried groom : a slow foot-pacing serf, 



-SCF:NE 1. j JULIAN. 1 1 

Brought tidings that the royal two that morn 
Left Villa d'Oro. Glowing from the chase 
Prince Julian stood ; his bridle in his hand, 
New lighted, soothing now his prancing steed, 
And prattling now to me ; — for I was still 
So foolish fond to fly into the porch 
To meet him, when 1 heard the quick sharp 

tread 
Of that bright Arab, whose proud step I knew 
Even as his master's voice. Reheard the tale 
And instant sprang again into his seat, 
Wheeled round, and darted off at such a pace 
As the fleet greyhound, at her speed, could 

scarce 
Have matched. He spake no word ; but as 

he passed, 
Just glanced back at me with his dancing eyes, 
And such a smile of joy, and such a wave 
Of his plumed bonnet I His return thou know'st. 
Alf. I was his wretched partner. 
Ann. He on foot, 
Thou on the o'er-travelled horse, slow, yet 

all stained 
With sweat, and panting as if fresh escaped 
From hot pursuit ; and how he called for wine 
For his poor Theodore, his faithful page ; 
Then sate him down and shook with the cold fit 
Of aguish fever, till the strong couch rocked 
Like a child's cradle. There he sate and 

sigh'd ; 
\nd then the frenzy came. Theodore ' 
Alf' Ladv ! 

B2 



U> J I LI AX. [alt 1. 

Ann. He utters nought but madness; — ye* 
sometimes, 
Athwart his ravings, I have thought — have 

feared — 
Theodore, thou must know the cause ? 
Alf. Too well. 
A7in. Oh tell me — 
Alf. Hush ! He wakes. 

(Alfonso retires behind the couch, out 
of Julianas sight.) 
Ann. Julian ! Dear Julian ! 
Jul. Sure I have slept a long, long while I 
Where am I ? 
How came 1 hither ? Whose kind hand is this ? 
My Annabel ! 

Ann. Oh what a happiness 
To see thee gently wake from gentle sleep ! 
Art thou not better ? Shall I raise thee up ? 
Jul. Ay, dearest. Have 1 then been ill? 
I'm weak, 
i trouble thee, my sweet one. 

Ann. 'Tisajoy 
To minister unto thee. 
Jul. Wipe my brow. 
And part these locks that the fresh air may 

cool 
My forehead ; feel ; it burns. 

Ann. Alas! how wild 
This long neglect hath made thy glossy curls, 
H«w tangled '. 

Jul. 1 am faint. Pray lay me down= 
Surely the day is stifling. 
Ann, There. Good bov, 



SCENE 1.] JULIAX. 1 V 

Throw wide the casement. Doth not the pott 

breeze 
Revive thee ? 

Jul. Yes. I'm better. I will rise. 
Raise me again ; — more upright ; — So ! Dear 

wife, 
A sick man is as wayward as a child ; 
Forgive me. Have I been long ill ? 
Ann. A week. 

Jul. 1 have no memory of aught. 'Tis just 
Like waking from a dream ; a horrible 
Confusion of strange miseries ; crime and 

blood 
And all I love — Great Heaven, how clear it 



seems 



How like a truth ! I thought that 1 rode forth 

On my white Barbary horse Say did I ride 

Alone that day ? 

Ann. Yes. 

Jul Did 1 ? Could I ? No. 
Thou dost mistake. I did not. Yet 'tis strange 
How plain that horror lives within my brain 
As what hath been. 

Ann. Forget it. 

Jul. Annabel, 
I thought 1 was upon that gallant steed 
At his full pace. Like clouds before the wind 
We flew, as easily as the strong bird 
That soars nearest the sun ; till in a pass 
Between the mountains, screams and cries of 

help 
Rang in mine ears, and I beheld Oh God ! 



20 .J1JL14A. [act 1. 

It was not— rCould not — No, I have been 

sick 
Of a sharp fever, and delirium shows. 
And to the bodily sense makes palpable. 
Unreal forms, objects of sight and sound 
Which have no being save in the burning brain 
Of the poor sufferer. Why should it shake me ! 

Ann. Julian, 
Couldst thou walk to the window and quaff 

down 
The fragrant breeze, it would revive thee more 
Than food or sleep. Forget these evil dreams. 
Canst thou not walk ? 

Jul, I'll try. 

Ann. Lean upon me 
And Theodore. Approach, dear boyj, sup- 
port him. 

Jul. {seeing Alfonso) Ha ! Art thou here ? 
Thou I I am blinded, dazzled! 
Is this a vision, this fair shape that seems 
A living child ? Do 1 dream now ? 

Ann. He is 
Young Theodore. The page, who that sad 

night 
Returned — 

Jul. Then all is real. Lay me down 
That I may die. 

Ann. Nay, Julian, raise thy head. 
Speak to me, dearest Julian. 

Jul. Pray for me 
That I may die. 

Alf. Alas ! I feared too surely 
That when he saw mo — 



Ann. Julian I This is griel", 
Not sickness. Julian ! 

Alf. Rouse him not, dear lady ! 
^ee how his hands are clenched. Waken him 

not 
To frenzy. Oh that I alone could bear 
This weight of misery. 

Anil. He knows the cause, 
And 1 — It is my right, my privilege 
To share thy woes, to soothe them. I'll weep 

with thee, 
And that will be a comfort. Didst thou think 
Thou could'st be dearer to me than before 
When thou wast well and happy ? But thou art 
Now. Tell me this secret. I'll be faithful. 
I'll never breathe a word. Oh spare my heart 
This agony of doubt ! What was the horror 
That maddened thee ? 

Jul. Within the rifted rocks 
Of high Albano, rotting in a glen 
Dark, dark at very noon, a father lies 
Murdered by his own son. 

Ann, And thou didst see 
The deed ? An awful sight to one so good ! 
Yet— 

Jul. Birds obscene, and wolf, and ravening 
fox. 
Ere this — only the dark hairs on the ground 
And the brown crusted blood ! And she can ask 
Why 1 am mad ! 

Ann. Oh a thrice awful sight 
To one so duteous ! Holy priests shall lave 
With blessed water thai foul spot, and thou 



i2 JULIAN. [act I, 

Pious and pitying, thou shalt— 

Jul. Hear at once, 
Innocent Torturer, that drop by drop 
Four'st molten lead into my wounds — that 

glen- 
Hang not upon me ! — In that darksome glen 
My father lies. I am a murderer, 
A parricide, accurst of God and man. 
Let go my hand ! purest and whitest saint, 
Let go ! 

Ann. This is a madness. Even now 
The fever shakes him. 

Jul. Why, the mad are happy I 
Annabel, this is a soul-slaying truth. 
There stands a witness. 

Alf. Julian knew him not. 
It was to save a life, a worthless life. 
Oh that I had but died beneath the sword 
That seemed so terrible ! That I had ne'er 
Been born to grieve thee, Julian I Pardon me, 
Dear lady, pardon me ! 

Ann. Oh, gentle boy, 
How shall we soothe this grief? 

Alf. Alas ! alas 1 
Why did he rescue me ! I'm a poor orphan ; 
None would have wept for me ; I had no 

friend 
In all the world save one. 1 had been reared 
In simpleness ; a quiet grave had been 
A titter home for me than the rude world ; 
A mossy heap, no stone, no epitaph. 
Save the brief words of grief and praise (for 
Griff 



SCENE I.] JULIAN. 2J 

Is still a praiser) he perchance had spoke 
When they first told him the poor boy was 

dead. 
Shame on me that I shunned the sword ! 

Jul. By Heaven, 
It could not be a crime to save thee ! kneel 
Before him, Annabel. He is the king ! 

Ann. Alfonso ? 

Alf, Ay, so please you, fairest cousin, 
But still your servant. Do not hate me, lady, 
Though 1 have caused this misery. We have 

shared 
One care, one fear, one hope, have watched 

and wept 
Together. Oh how often I have longed. 
As we sate silent by his restless coucli, 
To fall upon thy neck and mix our tears. 
And talk of him. I am his own poor cousin. 
Thou wilt not hate me ? 

Ann. Save that lost one, who 
Could hate such innocence ? 

Jul. 'Twas not in hate 
But wild ambition. No ignoble sin 
Dwelt in his breast. Ambition, mad ambition. 
That was his idol. To that bloody god 
He offered up the milk-white sacrifice, 
The pure unspotted victim. And even then, 
Even in the crime, without a breathing space 
For penitence or prayer, my sword — Alfonso 
Thou would'st have gone to Heaven. 

Ann. Art thou certain 
That he is dead ? 

Jul, 1 saw him fall. The ground 
W;)s covered with his blood. 



24 JULIAN. [act f, 

Ann. Tell me the tale. 
Didst thou — I would not wantonly recall 
That scene of anguish — Didst thou search his 

wound ? 
Jul, Annabel, in my eyes that scene will 

dwell 
For ever, shutting out all lovely sights, 
Even thee, my Beautiful ! That torturing 

thought 
Will burn a living fire within my breast 
Perpetually ; words can nothing add. 
And nothing take away. Fear not my frenzy : 
I am calm now. Thou know'st how buoyantly 
I darted from thee, straight o'er vale and hill, 
Counting the miles by minutes. At the pass 
Between the Albano mountains, I first breathed 
A moment my hot steed, expecting still 
To see the royal escort. Afar off 
As 1 stood, shading with my hand my eyes, 
I thought 1 saw them ; when at once I heard 
From the deep glen, east of the pass, loud cries 
Of mortal terror. Even in agony 
I knew the voice, and darting through the trees 
I saw Alfonso, prostrate on the ground, 
Cling around the knees of one, who held 
A dagger over him in act to strike. 
Yet with averted head, as if he feared 
To see his innocent victim. His own face 
Was hidden ; till at one spring I plunged my 

sword 

Into his side ; then our eyes met, and he 

That was the mortal blow '.—screamed and 

stretched ouf 



tiUtJ^K I.j JbJLXAA. ZO 

His hands. Falling and dying as he wa.«, 
He half rose up, hung speechless in the air. 
And looked — Oh what had been the bitterest 

curse 
To such a look ! It smote me like a sword i 
Here, here. He died. 

Jinn. And thou ? 

Jul. I could have lain 
In that dark glen for ever ; but there stood 
The dear-bought, and the dear, kinsman and 

prince 
And friend. We heard the far-oflf clang of 

steeds 
And armed men, and fearing some new foe, 
Came homeward 

Ann. And did he then, the unhappy, 
Remain upon the ground ? 

Jul. Alas ! he did, 

Ann. Oh, it was but a swoon ! Listen, denv 
Julian, 
I tell thee I have comfort. 

Jul. There is none 
Left in the world. But I will listen to thee. 
My faithfullest. 

Ann. Count D'Alba sent to crave 
An audience. Thou wast sleeping. I refused 
To see him ; but his messenger revealed 
To Constance his high tidings, which she poured 
In my unwilling ears, for I so feared 
To wake thee, that ere half her tale was told 
1 chid her from me ; yet she surely said 
'i'hc Duke, thy father— 

Jvl What? 

r 



'Id JULIAN. [act 1. 

Ann. Approached the city. 

Jvl. Alive ? Alive ? Oh no ! no ! no 1 no ! 
Dead ! Dead ! 
The corse, the clay-cold corse ! 

Anil. Alive I think ; 
But Constance — 

Alj, He will sink under this shock 
Of hope. 

Ann. Constance heard all. 

Jul, Constance I What ho, Constance I 

Ann. She hears thee not. 

Jul. Go seek her ! Fly ! 
If he's alive — Why art thou not returned, 
When that one little word will save two souls ! 

\exit Annabel, 

Alf. Take patience, dearest cousin! 

Jul. Do I not stand 
Here like a man of marble ? Do I stir t 
She creeps ; she creeps. Thou would'st have 

gone and back 
In half the time. 

Alf. Nay, nay, 'tis scarce a minute. 

Jul. Thou may'st count hours and ages on 
my heart. 
Is she not coming ? 

Alf. Shall I seek her ? 

Jul. Hark! 
They've met. There are two steps ; two silken 

gowns 
Rustling ; one whispering voice. Annabel ! 

Constance ! 
Is he — one word ! Onlv one word ! 



^CENE l.J JtLlAN. i: 

Enter Annabel. 
Ann, He lives ! 

[Julian sinks on his knees before the couch; 
Alfonso and Annabel go to him, and the 
scene falls. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Splendid hall of audience in the royal palace. 
D\ilba and Bertone. 

D^Alba. Again refuse to see me ! 

Bertone. Nay, my lord. 
She's still beside her husband's couch, and 

Paolo 
Refused to bear the message. 

D^Alba. Even her lacquey 
Reads my hot love and her contempt. No 

matter ! 
How's Julian ? 

Bert. Mending fast. 

D'Alba. He'll live! He'll live ! 
She watches over him, making an air 
With her sweet breath ;— he'll be immortal ! Yet 
If that dark tale be true — or half— Bertone, 
Haste to the Court of Guard ; seek Juan Castro. 
A Spanish soldier ; lead him home. I'll join ye. 
Hence ! I expect the Barons, whom 1 summoned 



•j;; jiLiA^. [act u< 

To meet me here. Come back. See if the 

Princess 
AVill now admit me. No ! 'twould wake sus- 
picion. 
Hence to the Court of Guard. [exit Bertone, 
1 think that scorn 

Dolh fan love more than beauty. Twice to-day 
Have I paced patiently these royal halls, 
Like some expecting needy courtier. Swell not. 
Proud charmer, thy vast debt ! Where lag these 

Barons ? 
Methinks this change might rouse — 

Enter Calvi, followed by other nobles. 
Ha ! Calvi, welcome. 

Calvi. A fair good morrow, D'Alba ! 
D'Alba. Hast thou heard 
These heavy tidings ? The young King — 
{^approaching to meet the other lords as they enter. 
My lords, 

Good morrow's out of date. Know ye the news ? 
So men salute to-day. 
Calvi. Alfonso dead 1 
D'Alba. Murdered. 
Calvi. And Melfi king. 
D'Alba. Ay. Here's a letter. 

(^giving a letter to Calvi. 
From the great Regent — Pshaw ! how my rude 

tongue 
Stumbles at these new dignities ! — the King. 
Therefore 1 summoned you. He will be here. 
Anon. 

Enter Valore and other nobles;. 
Valore. thou art late. 



•r-<Jt.\E f.J JULIAN. l^M 

Valore. This tale 
Puts lead into men's heels. How fell it? 

D'Alba. Read! 
Count Calvi ! Read ! 

Calvt. {reads) '' Alfonso being dead, and 1 
hurt, almost to death, they left me fainting on 
the ground, where I lay till a poor but honest 

muleteer bore me to his hut" 

He hath been wounded ! 

D'Alba. He's alive. The boy ! 
Only the pretty boy ! Read on. Read on. 

Calvi. [reads) '* Make known these missives 
to our loyal people. We shall follow them 
straight. From your loving cousin, 

** The King.'" 

Valore, The King. How he will wear his 
state ! Why, D'Alba, 
Thy worshipped Annabel chose well ; she'll br 
A Qiieen. 

VAlba. Yet, my poor title, had she graced it. 
Comes by unquestion'd sheer descent, unstain'd 
By dark mysterious murder. My good fathers — 

Heaven rest their souls ! lie safely in the 

church-yard, 
A simple race ; whilst these high Princes — 

Sirs, 
These palace walls have echoes, or I'd tell 

ye— 
*Tis a deep riddle, but amongst them all 
The pretty boy is dead. 

Enter Leant i 

T.eanti ! 
^ '^ 



Sn .iULlAN. [ATT. U. 

Leanti. Lords, 
The King is at the gate. 

D'Alba. The King ! Now, Sirs. 
Don your quick smiles, and bend your supple 

knees : — 
The King ! 

Enter Melfi, 

{Aside) He's pale, he hath been hurt, (aloud) 
My liege. 
Your vassals bid you welcome. 

Melfi. Noble Signors, 
I greet you well. Thanks, D'Alba. Good 

Leanti, 
I joy to see those reverend locks. I never 
Thought to behold a friendly face again. 
And now 1 bring ye sorrow. Death hath been 
Too busy ; though the ripe and bearded ear 
Escap'd his sickle — but ye know the tale ; 
Ye welcomed me as King ; and I am spared 
The painful repetition. 

Falore. Sire, we know 
From your own royal hand enough for joy 
And sorrow : Death hath ta'en a goodly child 

And spared a glorious man. But how 

Melfi. My Lord, 
What wouldstthou more? Before 1 entered here 
Messina's general voice had hailed her Sove- 
reign. 
Lacks but the ceremonial form. 'Twere best 
The accustomed pageant were performed even 

now, 
Whilst ye^ Sicilian Barons, strength and grace 



.SCENE 1.] JILIAN. 31 

Of our Sicilian realm, are here to pledge 
Solemn allegiance. Say I sooth. Count D'Alba ■ 

D'Alba. In sooth, my liege, 1 know not. 
Seems tome 
One form is wanting. Our bereaved state 
Stands like a widow, one eye dropping tears 
For her lost lord, the other turned with smiles 
On her new bridegroom. But even she, the 

Dame 
Of Ephesus, the buxom relict, famed 
For quick dispatch o'er every widowed mate, 
Woman, or state — even she, before she wed, 
Saw the good man entombed. The funeral 

first. 
And then the coronation. 

Melfi. Scoffer! Lords, 
The corse is missing. 

Calvi. Ha I Perchance he lives ? 

Melfi. He fell, I tell thee. 

Valore. And the assassin ? 

Melfi. He 
Escaped, when 1 too fell. 

D'Mba, He! Why, my liege, 
Was there but one ? 

Melfi. What mean ye, Sirs ? Stand off. 

D'Alba, Cannot your Highness guess the 
murderer ? 

Melfi. Stand from about me, Lords ! Dare 
ye to front 
A King ? What, do ye doubt me ; you, or you ? 
Dare ye to doubt me ? Dare ye look a question 
Into mine eyes ? Take, thy gaze off ! A King 
Demands a modester regard. Now, Sirs, 



•V. 



[act h. 



What do ye seek ? I tell ye, the fair boy 
Fell underneath the assassin's sword ; and I, 
Wounded almost to death, am saved to prove 
My subjects' faith, to punish, to reward, 
To reign, I tell ye, nobles. Now, who ques- 
tions ? 
Who glares upon me now ? What ! are ye mute ? 

Leanti, Deign to receive our homage. Sire, 
and pardon 
The undesigned offence. Your Highness knows 
Count D'Alba's mood. 

Melfi. And he knows mine. Well ! Well ! 
Be all these heats forgotten. 

Calvi. {to D'Alba.) How his eye 
Wanders around the circle. 

Melji. Ye are met. 
Barons of Sicily, in such august 
And full assemblage as may well beseem 
Your office, honour well yourselves and me ; 
Yet one is missing, — greatest, first, and best, — 
My son. Knows not Prince Julian that his fa- 
ther 
Is here ? Will he not come ? Go some one say 
That I would see him. 

[exit Calvi, 

Valore. Sire, the Prince hath lain 
Sick of a desperate malady. 

Melfi, Alas ! 
And I — Sick didst thou say ? 

Valore, Eight days have passed 
Since he hath left his couch. 

Leanti, He's better now. 
The gentle Princess, who with one young page 
Hath tended him — ~ 



SCENE I.J JULIAN. :i3 

Melfi. What page ? 

Leanti. A stranger boy, 
Seen but of few, young Theodore. 

Mel/i. A stranger ! 
Say on. The Princess ? 

Leanti. As I crossed the hall 
I met her, with her own glad step, her look 
Of joy ; and when I asked how fared Prince 

Julian ? 
She put her white hands into mine, with such 
A smile, and then passed on. 

Meljl. Without a word ? 

Leanti. Without a word, save the mute elo- 
quence 
Of that bright smile. 

D^Alba. (aside) Oh 'twas enough ! on him ! 
Smile on that dotard ! Whilst I — {alo2id) Why 

my lords 
Here's a fine natural sympathy ; the son 
Sickens at the father's wound ! The very day 1 
The very hour ! He must have known the 

deed — 
Perhaps he knows the assassin 

Melfi. Stop. 

D'Alba. My liege, 
I speak it in his honour. Many an heir 
Had been right glad to step into a throne 
Just as the mounting pulse of youth beat 

high;— 
A soldier too ! and with a bride so fair, 
So delicate, so fashioned for a Queen 
By cunning nature. But he — for full surely 
He knew 



34 JLLIA^. [act II, 

Melfi, Stop. No, no, no, he knew it not t 
lie is my son. 

Enter Calvi^ followed by JuUtLn, 
Calvi. My liege, the Prince I 
Mdji, Already ! 
Pardon me, good my lords, that I request 
A moment's loneliness. We have been near 

To death since last Have touched upon 

the grave, 
And there are thoughts, which only our own 

hearts 
Should hear. I pray ye pardon me. I'll 

join ye 
Within the hour for the procession. 

[Exeunt D^Albtty Leanti^ Valore, Calvi^ 4'C* 
Julian ! 

Jul. Father! 

Melfi. I know what thou would'st say. The 
hat 
And sable plumes concealed — No more of it. 
Jul. Oh, father ! 

Melfi. Rise, my son. Let us forget 
What — How is Annabel ? They say she has 

been 
A faithful nurse. Thou hast been sick ? 
Jul. I'm well. 

JVJelfi. Fie ! when thou tremblest so. 
Jul. I'm well. I have been 
Sick, brainsick, heartsick, mad. I thought — 

I feared — 
It was a foretaste of the pains of hell 



SCE^E I.] JULIAN. 35 

To be so mad and yet retain the sense 

Of that which made me so. But thou art here. 

And I Oh nothing but a father's heart 

Could ever have forgiven ! 

Melji. No more. No more I 
Thou hast not told me of*thy wife. 

Jul. She waits 
To pay her duty. 

Meifi. Stay. Count D'Alba looked 
With evil eyes upon thee, and on me 
Cast his accustomed tauntings. Is there aught 
Amiss between ye ? 

Jul. No. 

Melji. He hath not yet 
Perhaps forgotten your longrivalry 
For Annabel's fair hand. A dangerous meaning 
Lurked in those bitter gibes. A dangerous foe 
Were D'Alba. Julian, the sea breeze to thee 
Brings health, and strength, and joy. I have an 

errand 
As far as Madrid. None so well as thou 
Can bid it speed. Thou shalt away to-day ; — 
'Tis thy best medicine ; — thou and thy young 

wife. 
The wind is fair. 

Jul. To-day ! \ 

Melfi. Have 1 not said l 

Jul. Send me just risen from a sick couch to 
Madrid ! 
Send me from home, from thee ! Banish me ! 

Father, 
Canst thou not bear my sight '> 

Melfi,, I cannot bear 



36 JLLlA^. [act 11. 

Contention. Must 1 needs remind thee, Julian, 
I also have been ill ? 

Jul. I'll go to-day. 
How pale he is ! I had not dared before 
To look upon his face. I'll go to-day. 

Melfi. This very hour. 

Jtd. This very hour. 

Melfi, My son ! 
Now call thy — yet a moment. Where's the 

boy- 
He shall aboard with thee — thy pretty page ? 

Jul. The King ? Mean'st thou the King ? 

Melji. He whom thou call'st- 

Jul. Wilt thou not say the King ? 

Melfl. Young Theodore. 
Hearken, Prince Julian ! I am glad, right glad 
Of what hath chanced. 'Twas well to bring him 

hither. 
And keep him at thy side. He shall away 
To Spain with thee, that Theodore— Forget 
All other t'tles. He'll be glad of this. 
A favourite page, a spoilt ?ind petted boy, 
To lift in summer gardens, in the shade 
Of orange groves, whose pearly blossoms fall 
Amidst his clustering curls, and to his lute 
Sing tenderest ditties, — such his happy lot ; 
Whilst 1 Go, bring thy wife. 

Jul. He is the King. 

Melfi. Call lady Annabel. 

Jul. The King, I say. 
The rightful King, the only King ! I'll shed 
The last drop in my veins for Kin? Alfonso. 



scKKt I.] jtLiA^. ;i7 

Melji, Once 1 forgave thee» But to beard 

me thus, 
And for a weak and peevish youth, a faintling, 
A boy of a girl's temper ; one who shrinks 
Trembling or crouching at a look, a word, 
A lifted finger, hke a beaten hound. 

Jul, Alas, poor boy ! he hath no other friend 
Since thou, who should'st defend him — father, 

father, 
Three months have scarcely passed since thy 

dear brother, 
(Oh surely thou lovedst him !) with the last 

words 
lie ever spake, besought thy guardian care 
Of his fair child. Next upon me he turned 
His dying eyes, quite speechless then, and 

thou — 
I <'.ould not speak, for poor Alfonso threw 
Himself upon my breast, with such a gush 
Of natural grief, I had no utterance — 
But thou didst vow for both protection, faith. 
Allegiance ; thou didst swear so fervently, 
So deeply, that the spirit flew to Heaven 
Smiling. I'll keep that oath. 
Melfi. Even if again thy sword — 
Jul. Urge not that on me. 'Tis a lire 
Here in my heart, my brain. Bethink tbee, 

father. 
Soldier or statesman, thine is the first name 
Of Sicily, the General, Regent, Prince, 
The unmatch'd in power, the unapproach'd in 

fame : 



;i8 JULIAN. [act II. 

What could that little word, a King, do more 
For thee ? 

Melfi. That little word ! Why that is fame. 
And power and glory ! That shall fill the 

world, 
Lend a whole age its name, and float along 
The stream of time, with such a buoyancy, 
Ag shall endure when palaces and tombs 
Are swept away like dust. That little word ! 
Beshrew thy womanish heart that cannot feel 
Tfs spell ! 

(^guns and shouts are heard without.) 
Hark ! hark ! the guns ! 1 feel it now. 
I am proclaimed. Before I entered here 
■Twas known throughout the city that I lived. 
And the boy-king was dead. 

(gwTis, bells, and shouts again.) 
Hark, King Rugiero ! 
Dost hear the bells, the shouts ? Oh 'tis a 

proud 
And glorious feeling thus at once to live 
Within a thousand bounding hearts, to hear 
The strong out-gushing of that present fame 
For whose uncertain dim futurity 
Men toil and slay and die ! Without a crime — 
I thank thee still for that — Without a crime — 
For he'll be happier — I am a King. 

(^shoiits again.) 
Dost thou not hear Long live the King Ru- 
giero ? 

Jul. The shout is weak. 

Melfi. Augment it by tliv voicp. 



Would the words choke Prince Julian ? Can- 
not he 
Wish long life to his father ? 

Jul. Live, my father! 
Long live the Duke of Melfi ! 

Melfi. Live the King ! 

Jul. Long live the King Alfonso ! 

Melfi. Now, by heaven, 
Thou art still brainsick. There is a contagion 
In the soft dreamy nature of that child, 
That thou, a soldier — 1 was overproud 
Of thee and thy young fame. That lofty brow 
Seem'd form'd to wear a crown. Chiefly for 

thee — 
Where is the page ? 

Jul. Oh father, once again 
Take pity on us all ! For me ! For me ! 
Thou hast always been to me the kindest, 

fondest — 
Preventing all my wishes — I'll not reason, 
I'll not contend with thee. Here at thy feet, 
Prostrate in spirit as in form, I cry 
For mercy ! Save me from despair ! from sin ! 

Melfi. Unmanly, rise! lest in that slavish 
posture 
1 treat thee as a slave. 

Jul. Strike an thou wilt, 
Thy words pierce deeper, to the very core ! 
Strike an thou wilt ; but hear me. Oh my fa- 
ther ! 
I do conjure thee, by that name, by all 
The boundless love it guerdons, spare my soul 
This bitterness ! 



-iO .iULlAN. j ACT 11. 

Melfi. I'll reign. 

Jul. Ay, reign indeed ; 
Rule over mightier realms ; be conqueror 
Ofcrown'd passions; king of thy own mind. 
I Ve ever loved thee as a son, do this 
And 1 shall worship thee. I will cling to thee ; 
Thou shalt not shake me off. 

Alelfi. Go to ; thou art mad. 

Jul. Not yet ; but thou may'st make me so, 

Melfi. I'll make thee 
The heir of a fair crown. 

Jul. Not all the powers 
Of all the earth can force upon my brow 
That heritage of guilt. Cannot I die ? 
But that were happiness. I'd rather drag 
A weary life beneath the silent rule 
Of the stern Trappist, digging my own grave, 
Myself a living corse, cut off from the sweet 
And natural kindness that man shows to man ; 
I'd rather hang, a hermit, on the steep 
Of horrid Etna, between snow and tire ; 
Rather than sit a crown'd and honour'd prince 
Guarded by children, tributaries, friends. 
On an usurper's throne. (^guns without.) 

Melfi. I must away. 
We'll talk of this anon. Where is the boy ? 

Jul. Safe. 

Melfi. Trifle not with my impatience, Julian ; 
Produce the child. Howe'er thou may deny 
Allegiance to the king, obey thy father, 

Jul. I had a father. 

Melfi. Ha! 

Jul. But he gave up 



SCtNt: I.] JULIAN. ^1 

Faith, loyalty, and honour, and pure fame. 

And his own son. 
Melfi. My son! 
JuL I loved him once, 

And dearly. Still too dearly ! But with all 

That burning, aching, passionate old love 

Wrestling within my breast ; even face to face ; 

Those eyes upon me ; and that trembling 
hand 

Thrilling my very heart-strings — Take it off! 

In mercy take it offl — Still I renounce thee. 

Thou hast no son, I have no father. Go 

Down to a childless grave. 
Melfi. Even from the grave 

A father's curse maj reach thee, clinging to 
thee 

Cold as a dead man's shroud, shadowing thy 
days, 

Haunting thy dreams, and hanging, a thick 
cloud, 

'Twixt thee and Heaven. Then, when per- 
chance thine own 

Small prattling pretty ones shall climb thy knee 

And bid thee bless them, think of thy dead fa- 
ther, 

And groan as thou dost now. 

{guns again.) 

Hark ! 'tis the hour! 

I must away. Back to thy chamber, son. 

And choose if I shall curse thee. [exit Melfi. 
Jul. Did he curse me ? 

Did he ? Am I that withered, blasted wretch ? 

Is that the fire that burns my brain ? Not vet ! 
D 2 



42 JLLIAN. [act III, 

:. The boy 

\ Rushes out. 



Oh do not curse me vet ! He's gone. The boy 1 
The bov f 



ACT in. 



SCENE I. 

A magnificent cathedral. A Gothic monument 
in the foreground^ with steps round it, and 
the figure of an old warrior on the top, 

D^Alba, Leanti, Valore, Calvi, and other JVobles, 

Calvi. Where stays the King ? 

Leanti. He's robing to assume 
The crown. 

Calvi. What a gloom reigns in the Cathedral ! 
Where are the people, who should make and 

grace 
This pageant ? 

Valore. 'Tis too sudden. 

D^Alba. Saw ye not 
How coldly, as the slow procession moved, 
Men's eyes were fixed upon him ? Silently 
We passed amidst dull silence. I could hear 
The chink of money, which the heralds flung. 
Reverberate on the pavement. They, who 

stoop'd 
To gather up the coin, looked on the impress 



SCiiNE I.J JULIAN. 43 

Of joung Alfonso, sighed and shook their heads 
As 'twere his funeral. 

Calvi. Methinks this place, 
The general tomb of his high line, doth cry 
Shame on us ! The mute citizens do mourn 

him 
Better than we. 

D'Alba. Therefore the gates are closed, 
And none but peers of Sicily may pass 
The guarded doors. 

Leanti. Where is Prince Julian '! 

D'Alba. Sick. 
Here comes the Mighty One, and the great pre- 
lates 
That shall anoint his haughty brow ; 'tis bent 
With a stern joy. 

Enter Melfiy in royal robeSy preceded by no" 
bles, officers, <^c. bearing the croztrn, arch- 
bishop, bishops, ^c. 

Melfi. No ! To no tapered shrine. 
Here, reverend fathers, here ! This is my 

altar : 
The tomb of my great ancestor, who first 
Won from the Paynim this Sicilian crown. 
And wore it gloriously ; whose name 1 bear 
As I will bear his honour'd sceptre. Here, 
At this most kingly altar, will 1 plight 
My vow to Sicily, the nuptial vow 
That links my fate to her's. Here Til receive 
Her Barons' answering faith. Hear me, thou 

shade 
Of great Rugiero, whilst I swear to guard 



44 .ULIAX. [aot III. 

With heart and hand the reahn thy valour won. 
The laws thy wisdom framed — brave legacy 
To prince and people ! To defend their rights. 
To rule in truth and justice, peacefully, 
If peace may be ; and with the awful arm 
Of lawful power to sweep the oppressor off 
From thy blest Isle ; to be the Peasants' King — 
Nobles, hear that ! — the Peasants' King and 

yours ! 
Look down, Ancestral Spirit, on my oath, 
And sanctify and bless it ! Now the crown. 

D'Alba. What noise is at the gate ? 

Melfi. Crown me, I say. 

Archb. 'Tis fallen ! Save us from the ill 
omen ! 

Melfi. Save us 
From thy dull hands, old dotard ! Thou a priest. 
And tremble at the touch of power ! Give me 
The crown. 

D'Alba. It fits thee not. 

Melfi. Give me the crown. 
And with a steady grasp it shall endure 
These throbbing brows that burn till they be 

bound 
W^ith that bright diadem. 

Enter Julian and Alfonso. 

Jul. Stop. Place it here ! 
This is the King ! the real, the only King! 
The living King Alfonso ! 

Melfi. Out, foul traitor ! 
'Tis an impostor. 

Jul. Look on him Count D'Alba 



Calvi, Valore, look ! Ye know him well. 
And ye that never saw him, know ye not 
His father's Hneajnents ? Remove thy hand 
From that fair forehead. 'Tis the pallid brow 
Bent into pensiveness, the dropping eyelid, 
The womanish changing cheek — his very self! 
Look on him. Do ye know him? Dove own 
Your King ? 

Calvi. 'Tis he. 

D'Alba. The boy himself 1 

Jul. Now place 
The crown upon his head ; and hear me swear. 
Low at his feet, as subject, kinsman, Prince, 
Allegiance. 

Alf. Rise, dear Cousin. 

Jul. Father, kneel, 
Kneel here with me, thou his first subject, thou 
The guardian of the state, kneel first, and vow 
Thy princely fealty. 

Melji. Hence, abject slave ! 
And thou, young minion 

Jul. to Alf. Fear not. Father, kneel ! 
Look where thou art. This is no place, my lord, 
To dally with thy duty : underneath 
Thy fathers sleep ; above their banners wave 
Heavily. Death is round about us. Death 
And Fame. Have they no voice for thee ? Not 

one, 
Of one long storied line but lived and died 
A pure and faithful Knight, and left his son 
Honour — proud heritage ! I am thine heir, 
And I demand that bright inheritance 
Unstained, undimmed. Kneel. 1 implore thee !T, 
Thv son. 



46 .iiLiii.N. [act in. 

Melfi. Oft", cursed viper ! 
Off, ere 1 hurl thee on the stones ! 

Jul. I've done 
My duty. Was it not n>y duty ? 

Aff. Julian, 
Sit hereby me ; here on the steps. 

D'Alba. Again 
We must demand of thee, my Lord of Melfi, 
Yiow chanced this tale of murder ? Here's 

our Prince, 
Safe and unhurt. But where' s the assassin ? 

Where 
The regicide ? Where he that wounded thee ? 

Melfi. (pointing to Julian) Demand of him. 

D'Mha. Where be these murderers ? 
Art sure thou saw'st them, Duke 1 Cr was't 

a freak 
Of the deft Fay Morgana "> Didst thou feel 
The trenchant blade ? Or was the hurt thou 

talk'st of 
A fairy wound, a phantasm ? Once again 
I warn thee, speak. 

Melji. Demand Prince Julian, Sir. 
This work is his. 

WJilha. He speaks not. Little King, 
What say 'st thou? 

Alf. Julian saved me. 

D'Alba. Saved! From whom? 
From what ! 

Alf. A king should have no memory 
But for good deeds. My lords, an it so please 

you, 
We'll to the Palace. I'll not wear to-day 



SCENE I.j JULIAN 47 

This crown. Some fitting season ; but not now. 
Tm weary. Let us home. 

D^Alba, Ay, take him hence. 
Home with him, Count Valore. Stay by him 
Till I come to ye. Leave him not. Nay, Calvi, 
Remain. Hence with the boy. 

Alf. My Cousin Julian, 
Wilt thou not go with us ? 

Jul, I've done my duty. 
Was't not my duty ? But look there ! look 

there ! 
I cannot go with thee. I am his now. 
All his. 

Alf. Uncle 

Melfi, Away, bright spotted worm 

D'Alba. What, ho! the guard ! 

AIJ, My lord, where Julian is 
I need no guard. Question no more of this, 
But follow us. 

[Exeunt Alfonso^ Valore^ and other nobles, 

Melji. I do contemn myself 
That 1 hold silence. Warriors, kinsmen, 

friends, ^ 

Barons of Sicily, the valiant prirttes 
Of this most fertile and thrice famous Isle, 
Hear me ! W^hat yonder crafty Count hath 

dared, 
With subtle question and derisive smile, 
To slide into a meaning, is as true 
As he is false. 1 would be King ; I'd reign 
Over fair Sicily ; I'd call myself 
Tour Sovereign, Princes ; thine, ^^'^-'^^ nMt'> , 



4'6 JULIAN. [act a. 

Calvi, and old Leanti — we were comrades 
Many a 3'ear in the rough path of war. 
And now ye know me all. I'll be a King 
Fit for this warlike nation, which brooks sway 
Only of men. Yon slight fair boy is born 
With a woman's heart. Let him go tell his 

beads. 
For us and for our kingdom, I'll be King. 
I'll lend unto that title such a name. 
As shall enchase this bauble with one blaze 
Of honour. I'll lead on to glory, lords, 
And ye shall shine in the brightness of my fame 
As planets round the sun. What say ye ? 

D'Alba. Never! 

Calvi, ^c. Never ! 

Melfi. Say thou, Leanti, thou'rt a soldior 
Worthy of the name, — a brave one ! What 
say'st thou ? 

Leanti. If young Alfonso— — ■ 

D'Alba. Peace. Why this is well. 
This morning I received a tale — I'm not 
An over-believer in man's excellence ; 
1 know that in this slippery path of life 
The firmest foot may fail ; that there have been 
Ere now ambitious generals, grasping heirs. 
Unnatural kinsmen, foul usurpers, mur- 
derers ! — 
1 know that man is frail, and might have fallen 
Though Eve had never lived, — Albeit 1 own 
The smiling mischief's potency. But this, 
This tale was made up of such several sin:?, 
AH of them devilish: treason, treachery, 
And piljl-e:rs cruelty made murder pale 



aCENEl.] JULIAN. 4H 

With their red shame, — I doubt not readily 
When man and guilt are joined — but this the 

common 
And general sympathy that links our kind 
Forbade to believe. Yet now before you all. 
His peers and mine, before the vacant throne 
He sought to usurp, before the crown that fell 
As conscious from his brow, I do arraign 
Rugiero, Duke of Melfi, General, Peer, 
Regent, and Prince, of Treason. 

Meljl. Treason ! D'Alba. 
We quarrel not for words. Let these bui 

follow 
And bold emprise shall bear a happier name. 
Sicilians, have ye lost your island spirit? 
Barons, is your ancient bravery tamed down 
By this vain scoffer ? I'll to the people. They 
Love their old soldier. 

D^Alha. Stop. Duke, T arraign thee 
Of murder ; plann'd, designed, attempted mur- 
der, 
Though incomplete, on the thrice sacred 

person 
Of young Alfonso, kinsman, ward, and King. 
Wilt thou defend this too ? Was't a brave deed 
To draw the assassin's sword on that poor child ? 
Seize him 1 

Melfi. Come near who dares! Where be 
thy proofs ? 
Where be thy witnesses ? - 

WAlha. There's one. Prince Julian, 
Rouse thee ! He sits erect and motionless 
As von anrpstral image. Doth ho breathe ^ 



:>0 ji lian. [act irr. 

Rouse thee, mul answer, as before thy God, 
As there is truth in Heaven, didst thou not see 
Thy father's sword at young Alfonso's breast ? 
Lay not the boy, already dead with fear, 
At his false guardian's feet ? Answer! 

Mcljl. Ay, speak, 
Prince Julian ! Dost thou falter now ? On, on, 
And drive the dagger home ! On, on, 1 say. 

Calvi. We wait your Highness' answer. 

Jul. Which among ye 
Dares question me ? What are ye. sirs ? 

D'Alha, The States 
Of Sicily. 

Jul. The States ! V/ithout a head I 
Without a King ! Without a Regent ! States ! 
The States ! Are ye the States that 'gainst all 

form 
Of justice or of guardian law drive on 
To bloody trial, him your greatest ? Here, too ? 
Here ! Will ye bnild up scaffolds in your 

churches ? 
And turn grave priests to beadsmen ? I'll not 
answer. 

Calvi. The rack may force thee. 

D^Alba. He but smiles. Convey 
The Duke to the Hall of Justice. We shall 

follow. 
Go summon Juan Castro thither. Hence ! 
Why loiter ye ? 

Melfi. A word with thee. Prince Julian. 
I pray ye listen, 'tis no treason, lords. 
I would but say, tinish thy work. Play well 
The part that thou hast chosen. Cast aside 



5CLNE l.J JU'LlAiV. 61 

All filial yearnijigs. Be a gallant foe. 

Rush onward through the fight. Trample me 

down. 
Tread on my neck. Be perfect in that quality 
Which thou call'st justice. Quell thy wo- 
manish weakness. 
Let me respect the enemy, whom once 
1 thought my son. 
Jul. Once, father ! 
Melfi. I'm no father 1 
Rouse not my soul to curse thee I Tempt me 

not 
To curse thy mother — She whom once J 

deemed 
A saint in purity. Be resolute, 
Falter not with them. Lie not. 
Jul. Did I ever ? 
Melfi. Finish thy work. On, soldiers I 

[exit Melfi, guarded. 
D^Alba. Answer, Prince ! 
The Duke, as thou hast heard, disclaims thee. 

Jul. Dare not 
A man of ye say that. I am his son — 
Tremble lest my sword should prove me so ; 

— a part 
Of his own being. He gave me this life, 
These senses, these affections. The quick 

blood 
That knocks so strongly at my heart is his — 
Would I might spill it for him I Had ye no 

fathers, 
Have ye no sons, that ye would train men up 
In parricide ? 1 will not answer ye. 



/>:* JULIA.N. [aut hi, 

D'AVoa, This passion is thy answer. Could'st 
Ihou say 
No ; in that simple word were more comprised 
Than in a world of fiery eloquence. 
Canst thou not utter No ? 'Tis short and easy, 
The first sound that a stuttering babe will lisp 
To his fond nurse, — yet thy tongue stammers 

at it ! 
1 ask him if his father be at once 
Traitor and murderer, and he cannot say, 
No! 

Jul. Subtle, blood-thirsty fiend ! I'll answer 
To nought that thou canst ask. Murderer ! 

The king 
Lives. Seek of him. One truth I'll tell thee, 

D'Alba, 
And then the record of that night shall pass 
Down to the grave in silence. But one sword 
Was stained with blood in yonder glen — 'twas 

mine ! 
1 am the only guilty. This 1 swear 
Before the all-seeing God, whose quenchless 

gaze 
Pierced through that twilight hour. Now con- 
demn 
The Duke of Melfi an ye dare ! I'll speak 
No more on this foul question. 

Leanti. Thou the guilty ? 
Thou ! 

Jul. I have said it. 
D^Alba. I had heard a tale — 
Leanti. This must be sifted. 
n\^lhr(. In that twilight hour 



SCENE I.j JDhlAlS. o'o 

A mortal eye beheld them. An old Spaniard, 
One of the guard — By heaven, it is a tale 
So bloody, so unnatural, man may scarce 
Believe it ! 

Leanti. And the king stiil lives. 

D'Alba, Why 'tis 
A mystery. Let's to the Hall of Justice 
And hear this soldier. Sir, they are ambitious. 
Father and son — We can pass judgment there, 
This is no place ; — Leanti, more ambitious 
Than thou canst guess. 

Jul. Ay, by a thousand fold ! 
I am an eaglet born, and can drink in 
7"he sunlight, when the blinking owls go dark- 
ling, 
Dazzled and blinded by the day. Ambitious ! 
I have had day dreams would have shamed the 

visions 
Of that great master of the world, who wept 
For other worlds to conquer. I'd have lived 
An age of sinless giory, and gone down 
Storied and epitaphed and chronicled, 
To the very end of time. Now — But I still 
May suffer bravely, may die as a Prince, 
A Man. Ye go to judgment. Lords, remem- 
ber 
I am the only guilty. 

Calvi. We must needs, 
On such confession, give you into charge 
A prisoner. Ho ! Captain. 

Leanti. Goes he with us ? 

D\^lba, No; for the hall is near, -and Ibev 

^re I'P.st 

F 2 



ji JULIAN. [act ill. 

Questioned apart. Walk by me, good Leanti, 
And I will show thee why. 

Leanti. Is't possible 
That Julian stabb'd his father ? 

D'Alba. No. Thou saw'st 
They met as friends ; no ! no ! 

[exeunt Calvi and other lorfh. 

Enter Annabel. 

Ann. Where is he ? Where ? 
Julian ! 

D'Alba. Fair Princess. 
Ann. Stay me not. My Julian 1 
D'Alba. Oh, how she sinks her head upon 
his arm ! 
How her curls kiss his cheek ! and her white 

hand 
Lies upon his I The cold and sluggish husband ! 
He doth not clasp that loveliest hand, which 

nature 
Fashioned to gather roses, or to hold 
Bunches of bursting grapes. 

Leanti. Count D'Alba, see, 
We are alone. Wilt thou not come ? 

D'Alba. Anon. 
Now he hath seized her hand, hath dared to 

grasp,— 
He shall not hold it long. 

Leanti. They'll wait us, Count. 
WAlba. That white hand shall be mine. 

\exeunt D\(ilba and Leanti, 
Jul, My Annabel, 
Why art thou here ^ 



dCENK I.j JULIAN. 53 

Ann. Tbey said — I was a fool 
That believed them !— Constance said she heard 

a cry, 
Down with the Melfi ! and the rumour ran 
That there had been a fray, that thou wast 

slain. 
But thou art safe, my Julian ? 

Jul. As thou seest. 
Thou art breathless still. 

Ann. Ay. I flew through the streets, 
Piercing the crowds like light. I was a fool : 
But thou hadst left me on a sudden, bearing 
The young Alfonso with thee, high resolve 
Fixed in thine eye. I knew not — Love is 

fearful ; 
And 1 have learnt to fear. 
Jul. Thou tremblest still. 
Ann. The church is cold and lonely ; and 
that seat. 
At the foot of yon grim warrior, all too damp 
For thee. 1 like not thus to see thee, Julian, 
Upon a tomb. Thou must submit thee still 
To thy poor nurse. Home ! By the way thou'lt 

tell me 
What hath befallen. Where is Alfonso ? 

Jul. Say 
The king I the rightful, the acknowledged king 1 
Annabel, this rude stone's the effigy 
Of the founder of our line ; the gallant chief 
Who swept away the Saracen, and quelled 
Fierce civil broils ; and, when the people's 

choice 
Crowned him, lived guardian of their right?, 
nnd diod 



jfa" jULiAiN. [aut II r. 

Wept by ttiem as a father. And methinks 

To-day I do not shame my ancestor ; 

I dare to sit here at his feet, and feel 

He would not spurn his son. Thou dost not 

grieve 
To lose a crown, my fairest ? 

Ann. Oh no 1 no ! 
I'm only proud of thee. Thy fame's my crowii. 

Jul, Not fame, but conscience is the enduring 
crown, 
And wearing that impearled, why, to lose fame 
Or life were nothing. 

Ann. Where's thy father, Julian ? 
ForgivQ me, I have pained thee. 

Jul. No. The pang 
Is mastered. Where ? He is a prisoner 
Before the States. 1 am a prisoner here. 
These are my guards. Be calmer, sweetest. 

Rend not 
This holy place with shrieks. 

Ann. They seek thv life ! 
They'll sentence thee'l They'll kill thee 1 No ! 

they shall not, 
Unless they kill me first. What crime — O God, 
To talk of crime and thee! — What falsest 

charge 
Dare they to bring ? 

Jul. Somewhat of yon sad night 
They know. 

Ann. Where's Theodore ? the page ? the 
King ? 
Doth he accuse thee too ? 

JuL Poor gentle cousin ! 
FT*^ i' «o innoofpt p'^ thnn. 



Ann. I'll fetch him. 
We'll go together to the States. We'll save 

thee. 
We, feeble though we be, woman and boy, 
We'll save thee. Hold me not ! 

JuL Where would'st thou go ? 

Ann. To the States. 

JuL And there ? 

Ann. I'll tell the truth, the truth, 
The irresistible truth ! Let go. A moment 
May cost thy life, — our lives. Nothing but 

truth, 
That's all thy cause can need. Let go. 

Jul. And he, 
My father ? 

An7i. What's a thousand such as he. 
To thee, my husband ? But he shall be safe. 
He is thy father. I'll say nought can harm 

him. 
He was ever kind to me ! I'll pray for him. 
Nay, an thou fear'st me, Julian, I'll not speak 
One word ; I'll only kneel before them all. 
Lift up my hands, and pray in my inmost heart, 
As I pray to God. 

JuL My loving wife, to Him 
Pray, to Him only. Leave me not, my dearest : 
There is a peace around us in this pause, 
This interval of torture. I'm content 
And strong to suffer. Be thou — 

Enter D^Alha, Calvi, Leanii, and nobles. 

Ha! returned 

Already ! This is quick. But I'm prepared. 

The sentence '' 



bH JULIAN. [act hi. 

Ann. Tell it not 1 Ye are his judges. 
Ye have the power of life or death. Your 

words 
Are fate. Oh speak not yet ! Listen to me. 

D^Atba. Ay ; a long summer day ! What 
would'st thou ? 

Ann. Save him ! 
Save him! 

D'Alha. He shall not die. 

Ann. Now bless thee, D'Alba I 
Bless thee! He's safe! He's free I 

Jul. Once more I ask 
His doom, for that is mine, l^ye^ have dared, 
In mockery of justice, to arraign 
And sentenceyour great Ruler, with less pause 
Than a petty thief taken in the manner, what's 
Our doom ? 

D'Alba. Sir, our great ruler (we that love not 
Law's tedious circumstance may thank him) 

spared 
All trial by confession. He avowed 
Treason and regicide ; and all that thou 
Hadst said or might say, he avouched unheard 
For truth ; then cried, as thou hast done, for 

judgment. 
For death. 

Jul. I can die too. 

Leanti. A milder doom 
Unites ye. We have spared the royal blood. 

D''Alba. Only the blood. Estates and ho- 
nours all 
Are forfeit to the King ; the assembled states 
Banish ye : the most holv Church declare? ve 



x.EXE 1.] JULIAN. 6V 

Beneatk her ban. This is your sentence, Sir. 
A Herald waits to read it in the streets 
Before ye, and from out the city gate 
To thrust ye, outlawed, excommunicate, 
Infamous amongst men. Ere noon to-morrow 
Ye must depart from Sicily ; on pain 
Of death to ye the outlaws, death to all 
That harbour ye, death to whoe'er shall give 
Food, shelter, comfort, speech. So pa?s ve 

forth 
In infamy ! 

Ann. Eternal infamy 
R.est on your heads, false judges ! Outlawed! 

Banished ! 
Bereft of state and title ! Thou art still 
Best of the good, greatest amongst the great, 
My Julian ! Must they die that give thee food, 
And rest, and comfort ? I shall comfort thee, 
I, thy true wife ! I'll never leave thee. Never' 
We'll walk together to the gate, my hand 
In thine, as lovers. Let's set forth. We'll go 
Together 

Jul, Ay ; but not to-night. I'll meet thee 
To-morrow at the harbour. 

Ann. No ! no ! no ! 
I will not leave thee. 

Jul. Cling not thus. She trembles. 
She cannot walk. Brave Sir, we have been 

comrades ; 
There is a pity in thine eye, which well 
Beseems a soldier. Take this weeping lady 
To King Alfonso. Tell the royal boy, 
One who was once his Cousin and his friend. 



6U JL-LIAN. j^ACT IV. 

Commends her to him. Go. To-morrow. 

dearest, 
We'll meet again. Now for the sentence. 

Lords, 
I question not your power. I submit 
To all, even to this shame. Be quick ! be 

quick ! 

[Exeunt . 



ACT IV. 

SCENE 1. 

J?L apartment in the royal palace. 
D'Alha, Bertone. 

D'^Mha. I've parted them at last. The live- 
long night 
The little King lay, like a page, before 
Her chamber door ; and ever as he heard 
A struggling sigh within, he cried, alas ! 
And echoed back her moan, and uttered words 
Of comfort. Happy boy. 

Bert. But he is gone 
Towards the gate : be sure to meet Prince Ju- 
lian. 

D^Alba, For that I care not, so that I secure 
The vision which once flitted from my grasp 
And vanished like a rainbow. 

Bert. Yet is Julian 
Still dangerou*!. 



'.tNL I.J JILIA.N. HI 

D^Alba. Why after noon to-day — 
And see the sun's alrcad}^ high ! — he dies 
If he be found in Sicily. Take thou 
Two resolute comrades to pursue his steps, 
Soon as the time be past. Didst thou not hear 
The proclamation ? Know'st thou where he 

bides ? 
And Melfi ? 

Bert. Good, my lord, 'tis said the Duke 
Is dead. 

D'Alba. Dead! 

Bert. Certain 'tis that yesternight 
He walked from out the judgment hall like one 
Dreaming, with eyes that saw not, cars that 

heard 
No sound, staggering and tottering like old age 
Or infancy. And when the kingly robe 
Was plucked from him, and he forced from the 

gate, 
A deep wound in his side burst forth : the blood 
Welled like a fountain. 

D'Alba. And he died ? 

Bert. He fell 
Fainting ; and Juhan, who had tended him 
Silently, with a spirit so absorbed, 
His own shame seemed unfelt, tell on his neck 
Shrieking like maddening woman. There we 

left him, 
And there, 'tis said, he hath outwatched thp 
night. 

D\ilba. There on the ground '.' 

Bert. So please you. 

D'Mm. Thou hast known 
F 



02 J I LI AX. [act iV. 

A softer couch, Prince Julian. Js the litter 
Prepared ? And the old groom ? 

Bert. My lord, he waits 
Your pleasure. 

D''Alba. Call him hither. [exit Bertone. 

Blood welled out 

From a deep wound ! Said old Leanti sooth ? 
No matter ! Either way he's guilty. 

Re-enter Bertone with Renzi. 

Ila! 

A reverend knave. Wast thou Prince Julian's 
huntsman ? 
Renzi. An please you. Sir, 1 was. 
D'Mba. Dost know the Princess ? — 
Doth she know thee ? 

Renzi. Full well, my lord. I tended 
Prince Julian's favourife greyhound. It was 

strange 
How Lelia loved my lady, — the poor fool 
Hath pined for her this week past,— and my lady 
I.oved Lelia. She would stroke her glossy 

bead, 
And note her sparkling eyes, and watch her 

gambols, 
And talk of Leiia's beauty, Lelia's speed. 
Till I was weary. 

D\ilha. And the angel deemed 
This slave as faithful as her dog ! The better. 
Dost thou love ducats, Renzi ? 

(^tossing him a purse.) 
Canst thou grace 

A lie with tongue, and look, and action "! 
Renzi. Av. 



iCENE II.] Jl/LIAiV, 63 

D^Alba. Go to the Princess ; say thy master 
sent thee 
To guide her to him, or the young Alfonso, — 
Use either name, or both. Spare not for tears. 
Or curses. Lead her to the litter ; see 
That Constance follows not. Bertone '11 gain 
Admittance for thee. Go. \^exit Renzi. 

Bertone, seek me 
A supple churchman ; — Know'st thou any ?— - 

One 
Not scrupulous ; one who loves gold, and laughs 
At conscience. Bring him to me. I must has- 
ten 
Silently home. Let not the Princess guess 
That I have left the palace. 
Bert. No, my lord. 

[exeunt severally. 

SCENE II, 

The country just without the gates of Messina. 
A hilly back ground. 

Melfi lying on the stage, Julian. 

Jul. He wakes 1 He is not dead ! I am not 
yet 
A parricide. I dare not look on him ; 
I dare not speak. 

Melfi. Water ! My throat is scorched. 

[exitJuliari, 
My tongue cleaves to my mouth. Water ■ VYil^. 

none 
Go fetch me water ? Am I here alone " 



64 JULIA.%. [act IV. 

Here on the bloody ground, as on that night — 
Am I there still ? No ! I remember now. 
Yesterday I was king ; to-day I'm nothing ; 
Cast down by my own son ; stabbed in my 

fame; 
Branded and done to death ; an outlaw where 
I ruled ! He, whom I loved with such a pride. 
With such a fondness, hath done this ; and I, 
I have not strength to drag me to his presence. 
That I might rain down curses on his head, 
Might blast him with a look. 

Enter Julian. 

Jul. Here's water. Drink ! 

Melji. What voice is that ? Why dost thou 
shroud thy face ? 
Dost shame to show thyself ? Who art thou ? 

Jul. Drink. 
I pray thee drink. 

Melji. Is't poison ? 

Jul. 'Tis the pure 
And limpid gushing of a natural spring 
Close by yon olive ground. A littk child, 
Who stood beside the fount, watching the bright 
And many-coloured pebbles, as they seemed 
To dance in the bubbling water, filled for me 
Her beechen cup, with her small innocent hand, 
And bade our Lady bless the draught! Oh 

drink ! 
Have faith in such a blessing ! 

Melji. Thou should'st bring 
Nothing but poison. Hence, accursed cup I 
I'll perish in my thirst. I know thee. Sir. 



SCENE It.] JliLIAA. 65 

Jul. Father! 

Melfi. I have no son. I had one once, 
A gallant gentleman ; but he — What, Sir, 
Didst thou never hear of the Sicilian Prince, 
Who made the fabulous tale of Greece a truth, 
And slew his father ? The old Laius fell 
At once, unknowing and unknown ; but this 
New (Edipus, he stabbed, and stabbed, and 

stabbed, 
And the poor wretch cannot die. 

Jul. I think my heart 
Is iron that it breaks not. 

Melji. I should curse him — ^ 
And yet — Dost thou not knov,7 that I'm au out- 
law, 
Under the ban ? They stand in danger, Sir, 
That talk to me. 

Jul. I am an outlaw too. 
Thy fate is mine. Our sentence is alike. 

Melfi. What ! have they banished thee ? 

Jul. I should have gone, 
In very truth, I should have gone with thee. 
Ay, to the end of the world. 

Melfi. What, banish thee ! 
Oh, foul ingratitude I Weak changeling boy ! 

Jul. He knows it not. Father, this banish- 
ment 
Came as a comfort to me, set me free 
From warring duties, and fatiguing care?, 
And left me wholly thine. We shall be happy ; 
For she goes with us, who will prop thy steps, 
\« once the maid of Thebes, Antijrone, 
F 2 



66 JULIAA. [act IV. 

In that old tale. Choose thou whatever land,— 
All are alike to us. But pardon me ! 
Say thou hast pardoned me ! 

Melfi. My virtuous son ! 

Jul. Oh thanks to thee and heaven ! He 
sinks ; he's faint ; 
His lips wax pale. I'll seek the spring once 

more : 
Tis thirst. 

Melfi. What music's that ? 

Jul. I hear none. 

Melfi. Hark! 

.lul. Thou art weak and dizzy. 

Melfi. Angels of the air, 
Cherub and seraph sometimes watch around 
The dying, and the mortal sense, at pause 
'Twixt life and death, doth drink in a faintecho 
Of heavenly harpings ? 

Jul. I have heard so. 

Melfi. Ay ; 
But they were just men, Julian ! They were 

holy. 
They were not traitors. 

Jul. Strive against these thoughts — 
Thou wast a brave man, father ! — fight against 

them, 
As 'gainst the Paynims thy old foes. He growa 
Paler and paler. Water from the spring ; 
Or generous wine ; — I saw a cottage near. 
Rest thee, dear father, till 1 come. 

[exit Julian. 

Melfi. Again. 
That music I It is mortal ; it dr^ws nearer. 



SCENE ll.j JULIA.N. 67 

No. But if men should pass, must i lie here 
Like a crushed adder ? Here in the highway 
Trampled beneath their feet ?— So ! So I I'll 

crawl 
To yonder bank. Oh that it were the deck 
Of some great admiral, and I alone 
Boarding amidst a hundred swords ! the breach 
Of some strong citadel, and I the first 
To mount in the cannon's mouth ! I was brave 

once. 
Oh for the common undistinguished death 
Of battle, pressed by horse's heels, or crushed 
By falling towers ! Any thing but to lie 
Here like a leper ! 

Eiiiei' Alfonso, Falore, and Cahl. 

Alf. 'Tis the spot where Julian 

And yet I see him not. I'll pause awhile : 
■Tis likely he'll return. I'll wait. 

Calvi. My liege. 
You're sad to-day. 

Alf. I have good cause to be so. 

Val. Nay, nay, cheer up. 

Alf. Didst thou not (ell me. Sir. 
That my poor uncle's banished, outlawed, laid 
Under the church's ban ? 

Calvi. He would have slain 
His sovereign. 

Alf. I ne'er said it. Yesterday 
I found you at his feet. Oh, would to heaveu 
That crown were on his head, and F — —What's 
that? 

J'fif. The moanins wind 



68 JULIAN. (act IV. 

Calvi. He was a traitor, Sire, 
Alf. He was my kinsman still. And Julian ! 
Julian ! 
My cousin Julian ! he who saved my life, 
Whose only crime it was to be too good, 
Too great, too well beloved, — to banish him! 
To tear h^m from my arms ! 

Calvi. Sire, he confessed • 

Alf. Ye should have questioned me. Sirs, 
I'm a boy, 
A powerless, friendless boy, whose name is 

used 
To cover foul oppression. If Mive 
To grasp a sword — but ye will break my heart 
Before that hour. W hence come those groans 1 

{Seeing Melfi. 
My uncle 
Stretched on the ground, and none to tend 

thee ! Rest 
Thy head upon my arm. Where's Julian ? 

Sure 
I thought to find him with thee. Nay, be still ; 
Strive not to move. 

Melfi. I fain would kneel to thee. 
For pardon. 

Calvi. Listen not, my liege. The States 
Sentenced the Duke of Melfi ; thou hast not 
The power to pardon. Leave him to his fate. 
Vol. 'Twere best your Highness came 

with us. 
Alf. Avoid 
The place ! Leave us, cold, courtly lord* t 
Avoid 



.'S^.tiNE ll.j JULIAiN. (j^J 

My sight ! Leave us, I say. Send instant suc- 
cour, 
Food, water, wine, and men with hearts, if 

courts 
May breed such. Leave us. 

[exeunt Calvi and Valor e, 

MeJfi. Gallant boy ! 

Jilf. Alas! 
I have no power. 

Melji. For all I need thou hast. 
Give me but six feet of Sicilian earth, 
And thy sweet pardon. 

Alf. Talk not thus. Til grow 
At once into a man, into a king, 
And they shall tremble, and turn pale with fear. 
Who now have dared 

Enter Julian, 

Julian ! 

Jul. Here's water! Ha! 
Alfonso ! I thought Pity had been dead. 
I craved a little wine, for the dear love 
Of heaven, for a poor dying man ; and all 
Turned from my prayer. Drink, father. 

Alf. I have sent 
For succour. 

Jul. Gentle heart ! 

MelJi, The time is past. 
Music again. 

Alf. Ay ; 'tis the shepherd's pipe 
From yonder craggy mountain. How it swings 
Upon the wind, now pausing, now renewed, 
Hesular as a bpll. 



7U JULlAiN. [act IV. 

Melfi. A passing bell. 
Alf. Cast off these heavy thoughts. 
Meljl. Turn me. 
Aff. He bleeds! 
The blood wells out. 
Melfi. It eases me. 
Jul. He sinks! 
He dies ! Off! he's my father. Rest on me. 
Melfi. Bless thee. 

Jul. Oh, no ! no ! no ! I cannot bear 
Thy blessing. Twice to stab, and twice for- 
given — 
Oh curse me rather ! 
Melfi. Bless ye both. 

(Dies. 
Alf. He's dead, 
And surely he died penitent. That thought 
Hath in it a deep comfort. The freed spirit 
Gushed out in a full tide of pardoning love. 
He blest us both, my Julian ; even me 
As I had been his son. We'll pray for him 
Together, and thy Annabel shall join 
Her purest orisons. I left her stretched 
In a deep slumber. All night long she watched 
And wept for him and thee ; but now she 

sleeps. 
Shall I go fetch her? She, better than I, 
Would soothe thee. Dost thou hear? He 

writhes as though 
The struggling grief would choke him. Rouse 

thee, Julian, 
Calm thee. Thou frighten'stme. 

Jul. Am I not calm ? 
There is mv sword. Go 



-:ene li.j .fULiAN. n 

Alf. I'll not leave thee. 

Jul. King! 
Dost thou not see we've kill'd him ? Thou 
had'st cause ; 

But I, that was his son. Home to thy palace 1 

Home ! 

Alf. Let me stay beside thee ; I'll not speak. 
Nor look, nor move. Let me but sit and drop 
Tear for tear with thee. 

Jul. Go. 

Alf. My Cousin Julian 

Jul. Madden me not. I'm excommunicate. 
An exile, and an outlaw, but a man. 
Grant me the human privilege to weep 
Alone o'er my dead father. King, I saved 

Thy life. Repay me now a thousand- fold j 

Go. 

Alf Ay ; for a sweet comforter. 

Enter Paolo. 

Paolo. My liege. 
The lady Annabel 

Jul. What ? is she dead ? 
Have I killed her ? 

Alf Speak, Paolo. In thy charge 
I left her. 

Jul. Is she dead ? 

Paolo. No. Heaven forefend ! 
But she hath left the palace. 

Jul. 'Tis the curse 
Of blood that's on my head : on all I love. 
She's lost. 



7.t^ JULIAN. 1 ArJ' fA . 

Alf. Did she go forth alone ? 

Paolo. My liege, 
Prince Julian's aged huntsman, Renzi, came, 
Sent, as he said, by thee, to bear her where 
Her Lord was sheltered. 

Jul. Hoary traitor ! 

Paolo. She 
FoUovTed him, nothing fearing ; and I too 
Had gone, but D'Alba's servants closed the 

gates, 
And then my heart misgave me. 

Jul. Where's my sword ? 
I'll rescue her 1 I'll save her '? 

Alf. Hast thou traced 
Thy lady? 

Paolo. No, my liege. But much i fe^ 
Certain a closed and guarded litter took 
The way to the western suburb. 

Jul. There, where lies 
The palace of Count D'Alba ! Stained — de- 
filed— 
He hath thee now, my lovely one ! There's 

still 
A wa}^ — Let me but reach thee ! One asylum — 
One bridal bed — One resting place. All griefs 
Are lost in this. Oh would 1 lie as thou, 
My father ! Leave him not in the high-way 
For dogs to mangle. He was once a prince. 
Farewell ! 

Mf. Let me go with thee. 

Jul. No. This deed 
Is mine. 

l^exit JvUan. 



SCENE IIJ.j JLL£A:V. T^'- 

Alf. Paola, stay by the corse. I'll after, 
He shall not on this desperate quest alone. 
Paolo. Rather, my liege, seek D'Alba : — 
As I deem 
He still is at thy palace. Watch him well. 
Stay by him closely. So may the sweet lady 
Be rescued, and Prince Julian saved, 
Alf. Thou'rt right. 

[exeunt 

SCENE III. 

An apartment in an old, tower ; a rich Gothic 
window, closed, but so constructed as that the 
light may be thrown in, near it a small arched 
door, beyond which is seen an inner chamber, 
with an open casement. — Annabel is borne in 
by D'Alba and guards, through a strons^ iron 
door in the side scene. 

D^Alba, Annabel, guards. 

D^Alba. Leave her with me. Guard well the 
gate ; and watch 
That none approach the tower. 

[exeunt guards-. 
Fair Annabel I 

Ann, Who is it calls ? Where am I ? Who 
art thou ? 
Why am I here ? Now heaven preserve me, 

D'Alba I 
Where's Julian ? Where's Prince Julian ? 

Where's my husband ? 
Fvenzi, who lured me from the palace, sworr 
It was to meet my husband. 
G 



'4 JULIAIv. [act IV, 

D'Alba. Many an oath 
First sworn in falsehood turns to truth. He's 

here. 
Calm thee, sweet lady. 

Ann. Where ? I see him not. 
Julian ! 

D^Alba. Another husband. 

Ann. Then he's dead I 
He's dead ! 

D'Alba. He lives. 

Ann. Heard ! aright ? Again ! 
There is a deafening murmur in mine ears, 
Like the moaning sound that dwells in the sea 

shell, 
80 that I hear nought plainly. Say't again. 

D'Alba. He lives. 

Ann. Now thanks to heaven ! Take me to 
him. 
Where am I ? 

D'Alba. In an old and lonely tower 
At the end of my poor orchard. ' 

Ann. Take me homo. 

D^Alba. Thou hast no home. 

Ann. No home ! His arms! his heart! 
Take me to him. 

D'Alba. Sweet Annabel, be still. 
Conquer this woman's vain impatiency, 
And listen. Why she trembles as I were 
Some bravo. Oh that man's free heart should 

bow 
To a fair cowardice ! Listen. Thou knowest 
The pentencp of the Melfi " 



«tLNE III.] JULiAiN, 75 

An7i, Ay, the unjust 
And wicked doom that ranked the innocent 
With the guilty. But I murmur not. I love 
To suffer with him. 

D'^Alba. He is banished ; outlawed ; 
Cut off from every human tie ; — 

Ann. Not all. 
1 am his wife. 

D^Alba. Under the church's ban. 
I tell thee, Annabel, that learned priest. 
The sage Anselmo, deems thou art released 
From thy unhappy vows ; and will to-night — 

Ann. Stop. I was wedded in the light of 
day 
In the great church at Naples. Blessed day I 
I am his wife ; bound to him evermore 
In sickness, penury, disgrace. Count D'Alba, 
Thou dost misprize the world, but thou must 

know 
That woman's heart is faithful, and clings closest 
In misery. 

D^Alba. If the church proclaim thee free — 

Ann. Sir, I will not be free ; and if I were 
I'd give myself to Julian o'er again — 
Only to Julian ! Trifle thus no longer. 
Lead me to him. Release me. 

D^Alha. Now, by heaven, 
I'll bend this glorious constanc3^ I've known 

thee 
Even from a little child, and I have seen 
That stubborn spirit broken : not by fear. 
That thou canst quell ; nor interest ; nor am 
bition : 



76 JULIAN, [act. IV. 

But love ! iove ! love ! I tell thee, Annabel, 
One whom thou lov'st, stands in my danger. 

Wed me 
This very night — I will procure a priest 
And dispensations, there shall nothing lack 
Of nuptial form — Wed me., or look to hear 
Of bloody justice. 

Ann. My poor father, Melli ! 

D'Alba. The Regent. He is dead. 

An7i. God hath been merciful. 

D'Alba. Is there no other name ? no dearer ? 

Ann. Ha ! 

D^Alha. Hadst thou such tender love for this 
proud father, 
Who little recked of thee, or thy fair looks ; — 
Is all beside forgotten ? 

Ann. Speak ! 

B'Alba. Why, Julian! 
Julian, I say ! 

Ann. He is beyond thy power. 
Thanks, thanks, great God! He's ruined, ex- 
iled, stripped 
Of name, and land, and titles. He's as dead. 
Thou hast no power to harm him. He can fall 
No deeper. Earth hath not a lowlier state 
Than princely Julian fills. 

D^Alha. Doth not the grave 
Lie deeper ? 

Ann. What ? But thou hast not the power ! 
Hast thou ? Thou canst not. Oh be pitiful ! 
Speak, I conjure thee, speak ! 

D'Alba. Didst thou not hear 
That he was exiled, outlawml, banished fai 



SCtNE IH.j JULIAN. 77 

From the Sicilian isles, on pain oi' death. 
If, after noon to-day, he e'er were seen 
In Sicily ? The allotted bark awaits ; 
The hour is past ; and he is here. 

Ann. Now heaven 
Have mercy on us ! D'Alba, at thy feet, 
Upon my bended knees — Oh pity ! pity I 
Pity and pardon ! I'll not rise. I cannot. 
1 cannot stand more than a creeping worm 
Whilst Julian's in thy danger. Pardon him 1 
Thou wast not cruel once. I've seen thee turn 
Thy step from off the path to spare an insect ; 
I've marked thee shudder, when my falcon 

struck 
\ panting bird ; — though thou hast tried to 

sneer 
At thy own sympathy. D'Alba, thy heart 
Is kinder than thou knowest. Save him, D'Alba ! 
Save him ! 

D'Alba. Be mine, 

.^nn. Am I not his ? 

D'Alba. Be mine ; 
And he shall live to the whole age of man 
Unharmed. 

Ann. I'm his — Oh spare him! — Only his. 

D'Alba. Then it is thou that dost enforce the 
law 
On JuHan ; thou, his loving wife, that guid'st 
The officer to seize him where he lies 
Upon his father's corse ; thou that dost lead 
Thy husband to the scaffold ; — thou his wife, 
His lovinw wife ! Thou yet may'st rescue him 



JUHAK. [AGl' l\ . 

Ann, Now, God forgive thee, man ! Thoii 

torturest me 
Worse than a thousand racks. But thou art 

not 
So devilish, D'Alba. Thou hast talked of love ; 
Would'st see me die here at thy feet ? Have 

mercy! 
D^Alba. Mercy ! Ay, such as thou hast shown 

to me 
Through weeks, and months, and years. I was 

born strong 
In scorn, the wise man's passion. I had lived 
Aloof from the juggling world, and with a string 
Watched the poor puppets ape their several 

parts ; 
Fool, knave, or madman ; till thy fatal charms, 
Beautiful mischief, made me knave, and fool, 
And madman ; brought revenge, and love, and 

hate 
Into my soul. I love and hate thee, lady, 
And doubly hate myself for loving thee. 
But, by this teeming earth, this starry heaven, 
And by thyself, the fairest stubbornest thing 
The fair stars shine upon, I swear to-night 
Thou shalt be mine. If willingly, I'll save 
Prince Julian ; — but still mine. Speak. Shall 

he live ? 
Canst thou not speak ? Wilt thou not save him ? 
An7i. No. 
D'Alba. Did she die with the word ! Dost 

hear me, lady ? 
T asked thee wonldf^t thou save f hv husband " 



SCENE lir.j JULiA.%. 7y 

Ann. No. 
Not so ! Not so ! 

D'Alba. 'Tis well. [exit D'Alba. 

Ann. Stay ! Stay ! He's gone. 
Count D'Alba ! Sa*ve him ! Save him ! D'Alba's 

gone, 
And I have sentenced him. (after apause.) 
He would have chosen so, 
Would rather have died a thousand deaths 

than so 
Have lived ! Oh who will succour me, shut up 
In this lone tower ! none but those horrid 

guards, 
And yonder hoary traitor, know where the poor, 
Poor Annabel is hidden ; no man cares 
How she may perish — only one — and he — 
Preserve my wits ! I'll count my beads ; 'twill 

calm me : 
What if I hang my rosary from the casement ? 
There is a brightness in the gorgeous jewel 
To catch men's eyes, and haply some may- 
pass 
That are not pitiless. This window's closed ; 
But in yon chamber — Ah» 'tis open ! There 
rU hang the holy gem, a guiding star, 
A visible prayer to man and God. Oh save me 
From sin and shame ! Save him ! Til hang it 
there. fe^'ft* 



BO JULIAN. [act \. 

ACT V. 



The same as the last; the arched door ncarhj 
closed. 

Annabel. 

Ann. 1 cannot rest. I wander to and fro 
Within my dreary prison, as to seek 
For comfort, and find none. Each hour hath 

killed 
A hope that seemed the last. The shodows 

point 
Upward. The sun is sinking. Guard me, 

heaven, 
Through this dread night I 

(a gun is heard without.) 
What evil sound— All sounds 
Are evil here ! Is there some murder doing ? 
Or wantonly in sport. 

Enter Julian through the arched door. 

Jul. Annabel ! 

Ann. Julian ! 

Jul. My wife ! Art thou still mine ;' 

Ann. Thine own. 

Jul. She smiles ! _ 

She clings to me ! her eyes are fixed on mine 
With the old love, the old divinest look 
Of innoconre ' It is yet time. She*s pure ! 



bCEiNE I.J JULIA.X. 81 

She's undeiiied ! — Speak to me, Annabel. 
Tremble not so. 

Ann, 'Tis joy. Oh I have been 
So wretched ! And to see thee when 1 thought 
We ne'er should meet again ! How didst thou 
find me ? 

Jul. The rosary ! the blessed rosary 
Shone in the sun-beam, like a beacon fire, 
A guiding star ! Thrice holy was its light 
That led me here to save 

Ann, Oh blessings on thee ! 
How ? where ? what way ? The iron door is 

barred ! 
Where didst thou enter, Julian I 

Jul. Through the casement 
Of yonder chamber. 

Ann. What ? that grim ascent ! 
That awful depth ! Didst thou dare this for me ? 
And must I ? — But I fear not. I'll go with thee. 
I'm safe of foot, and light. I'll go. 

Jul. Thou canst not 

Ann. Then go thyself, or he will find thee 
here, 
He and his ruffian band. Let us part now. 
Kiss me again. Fly. fly from Sicily! — 
That fearful man — but he is all one lie — 
Told me thy life was forfeited. 

Jul. He told thee 
A truth. 

Ann. Oh fly ! fly ! fly I 

Jul. My Annabel 
Tiie bloodhound^ that be laid upon the seen*:. 



C2 JLLIAN. [act V. 

Have tracked me hither. Didst thou hear a 

gun? 
For once the ball passed harmlesp. 

Ann. Art thou hurt ? 
Art sure thou art not ? 

Jul Yes. But they who aimed 
That death are on the watch. Their quarry-s 

lodged. 
AVe can escape them — one way — only one ! 

Ann. How ? What way ? 

JnL Ask not. 

Ann. Whither? 

./w/. To my father. 

Ann. Then he's alive — Oh happiness ! They 
told me 
That he was dead. Why do we loiter here ? 
Let's join him now. 

Jul. Not yet. 

.Unn. Now ! now ! Thou know'st not 
How horribly these walls do picture to me 
The several agonies wliereof my soul 
Hath drunk to-day. I have been tempted, Ju- 
lian, 
By one — a fiend ! tempted till I almost thought 
God had forsaken me. Bat thou art here 
To save me, and my pulse beats high again 
With love and hope. 1 am light-hearted now, 
And could laugh like a child — only these walls 
Do crowd around me with a visible weight, 
A palpable pressure ; giving back the forms 
Of wildest thoughts that wandered through my 

brain. 
Bright chattering Madnesf*. and sedate Despair, 



SCENE I.j JLLIAX. 83 

And Fear the great unreal ! — Take me hence ! 
Take me away with thee ! 

Jul. Not yet, not yet. 
Thou sweetest wretch ! 1 cannot— Dotard ! 

Fool ! 
I must. Not yet! not yet! — Talk to me, An- 
nabel ; 
This is the hour when thou wast wont to make 
Earth heaven with lovely words ; the sun-set 

hour, 
That woke thy spirit into joy. Once more 
Talk to me, Annabel. 

Ann. Ay, all day long, 
When we are free. Thy voice is choked ; Ihv 

looks 
Are not on me ; thy hand doth catch and twitch 
And grasp mine painfully, — that gentle hand ! 
Jul. O God ! O God ! that right hand !—ki?s 
it not ! 
Take thy lips from it ! 

Ann. Canst thou save me, Julian ? 
Thou always dost speak truth. Canst save thy- 
self? 
Shall we go hence together ? 

Jul. Ay, one fate — 
One home. 

Ann. Why that is bliss. We shall be poor- 
Shall we not, Julian ? I shall have a joy 
I never looked for ; I shall work for thee, 
Shall tend thee, be thy page, thy 'squire, thv 

all,~ 
Shall I not. Julian? 



84 JULIAN. j ACT V . 

Jul. Annabel, look forth 
Upon this glorious world ! Look once again 
On our fair Sicily, lit by that sun 
Whose level beams do cast a golden shine 
On sea, and shore, and city, on the pride 
Of bowery groves ; on Etna's smouldering 

top ;— 
Oh bright and glorious world ! and thou of all 
Created things most glorious, tricked in light. 
As the stars that live in heaven 1 

Ami. Why dost thou gaze 
So sadly on me. 

Jul. The bright stars, how oft 
They fall, or seem to fall ! The sun — look ! 

look! 
He sinks, he sets in glory. Blessed orb, 
Like thee — like thee — Dost thou remember 

once 
We sate by the sea-shore when all the heaven 
And all the ocean seemed one glow of fire : 
Red, purple, saffron, melted into one 
Intense and ardent flame, the doubtful line 
Where sea and sky should meet, was lost in 

that 
Continuous brightness : there we sate and 

talked 
Of the mysterious union that blessed orb 
Wrought between earth and heaven, of life and 

death ? 
High mysteries ! — and thou didst wish thyself 
A spirit sailing in that flood of light 
Straight to tho Eternal Gales, didst pray to 
pass 



SCENE I.] JULIAN. 85 

Away in such a glory. Annabel ! 
Look out upon the burning sky, the sea 
One lucid ruby — 'tis the very hour ! 
Thou'lt be a seraph at the Fount of Light 
Before 

Ann. What, must I die ? And wilt thou kill 
me? 
Canst thou? Thou cam'st to save-= — 

JuL To save thy honour ! 
I shall die with thee. 

Ann. Oh no ! no ! live ! live ! 
If I must die — Oh it is sweet to live. 
To breathe, to move, to feel the throbbing 

blood 
Beat in the veins, — to look on such an earth 
And such a heaven, — to look on thee 1 Young 

life 
Is very dear. 

Jul. Would'st live for D'Alba ? 

Ann. No! 
I had forgot. I'll die. Quick ! Quick ! 

Jul. One kiss ! 
Angel, dost thou forgive me ? 

Ann. Yes. 

Jul. My sword ! — 
I cannot draw it. 

Ann, Now ! I'm ready. 

Enter Bertone, and two murderers. 

Bert. Seize him 1 
Yield thee, Prince Julian ! Yield thee 1 Seize 
the lady. 

H 



86 JULIAN. [act V. 

Jul. Oh fatal, fond delay ! Dare not come 
near us ! 
Stand off! I'll guard thee, sweet. But when I 

fall 
Let him not triuraph. 
Bert. Yield thee ! 
Strike him down. 

Jtil. Thou canst die then, my fairest. 

(^the two murderers have now advanced 
close to Julian.) 
Bert. Now ! 

(One of the fnurderers strikes at Julian with his 
sword ; Annabel rushes before him^ receives 
the wound aimed at him, and falls at his feet. 
Ann. (^before she is wounded.) For thee. 
[then after) For thee. 
'Tis sweet ! [dies.) 

Jul. Fiend, hast thou slain her ? Die ! die ! 
die ! i 

Come on. (fights and kills him.)^ 

Bert. Call instant help ! Hasten the Count ! 
[exit the other murderer. 
(Julian and Bertonefighty and Juliankills him.) 

Jul. My wife ! 
My murdered wife ! Doth she not breathe ? I 

thought — 
My sight is dim — Oh no 1 she's pale ! she's 

cold! 
She's still ! If she were living she would speak 
To comfort me. She's mute ! she's stiff! she's 

— de£id ! 
Why do I shiver at the word, that am 
Death's factor, peopler of unhallowed graves, 



SCEl^E i.] JULIAN. 87 

Slayer of all my race ! not thee ! not thee ! 
God, in his mercy, guided the keen sword 
To thy white bosom, — I could not. Lie there, 
I'll shroud thee in my mantle. 

(^covering her with it.) 
The rude earth 
Will veil thy beauty next. One kiss ! — She 

died 
To save me. — One kiss, Annabel ! I slew 
The slave that killed thee, — but the fiend, the 

cause — 
Is he not coming ? — I will chain in life 
Till I've avenged thee ; I could slay an army 
Now in my strong despair. But that were 

mercy. 
He must wear daggers in his heart. He loved 

her ; — 
I'll feed his hopes — and then — Ay — ha! ha! 

ha! 
That will be a revenge to make the fiends 
Laugh — ha ! ha ! ha ! I'll wrap me in this 

cloak 

[taking one belonging to the dead bravo.) 
And in the twilight — So ! — he will not know 
My voice — it frightens me ! — 1 have not hidden 
Thee quite, my Annabel ! There is one tress 
Floating in spring}/ grace — as if— she's dead ! 
She's dead ! 1 must not gaze, for then my 

heart 
Will break before its time. He comes. The 

stairs 
Groan at his pressure. 



S8 JULIAN. (act V. 

Enter D'Alba. 

D^Alba, {entering to an attendant) Back and 
watch the gate ! — 
All's tranquil. Where's the traitor ? 
Jul, Dead. 

D'Alba. Who slew him ? 
Jul. I. 

D'Alha. And the lady, — where is she ? 
Jul. At rest. 

D^Alha. Fair gentleness ! After this perilous 
storm 
She needs must lack repose. I'll wait her 

here. 
Friend I thou hast done good service to the 

state 
And me ; we're not ungrateful. Julian's sword 
Fails him not often ; and the slave who fled 
Proclaimed him victor. 
Jul. He slew two. 
D'Alba. And thou 
Slew'st him ? Ay there he lies in the ermined 

cloak 
Of royalty, his haughty shroud ! Six ells 
Of rude uncostly linen serves to wrap 
Your common corse ; but this man was born 

swathed 
In regal purple ; lived so ; and so died. 
So be he buried. Let not mine enemy 
Call me ungenerous. Roll him in his ermine 
And dig a hole without the city gate 
For him and the proud Regent. Quick ! I'd 
have 



.SCENE 1.] JULIAN. 89 

The funeral speedy. Ah ! the slaughtering 

sword 
Lies by him, brown with clotted gore. Hence ! 

hence ! 
And drag the carrion with thee. 

Jul. Wilt thou not 
Look on the corse ? 

D^Alba. 1 cannot wait her waking. 
I Kiust go feast my eyes on her fair looks — 
Divinest Annabel ! My widowed bride ! — 
Where is she ? 

Jul, (^uncovering the body.) There ! Now 
gaze thyself to Hell I 
Gloat with hot love upon that beauteous dust ! — 
She's safe ! She's dead ! 
D\ma. Julian! 
Jul. But touch her not ! 
She's mine. 

D\^lba. Oh perfectest and loveliest thing ! 
Eternal curses rest upon his head 
Who murdered thee ! 

Jul. Off! off! Pollute her not! 
She's white ! She's pure ! — Curses ! Now curse 

for curse 
On the foul murderer ! On him who turned 
The sweet soul from her home, who slew her 

father, 
Hunted her husband as a beast of prey, 
Pursued, imprisoned, lusted, left no gate 
Open save that to Heaven ! — Off! gaze not on 

her! 
Thv look is profanation ! 
H 2 



yO JULIAN. [act V. 

Enter Alfonso, Leanti, Valore^ ^c. 

Jllf. {Entering.) Here, Leanti ! 
This way ! Oh sight of horror ! Julian ! Julian ! 

Valore. The Princess dead ! Why D'Alba — 

Leanti. Seize him, guards. 
Lead him before the States. This bloody 

scene 
Calls for deep vengeance. 

D^Alba. If I were not weary 
Of a world that sweats under a load of fools — 
Old creaking vanes that turn as the wind 

changes — 
Lords, I'd defy ye ! I'd live on for ever ! 
And I defy ye now. For she is gone — 
The glorious vision ! — and the patriarch's years 
Were valueless. Do with me as ye will.- — 
Ye cannot call back her. 

Lea7iti. Off with him ! 

[exit D'Alba guarded. 

Alf. Julian ! 
Wilt thou not speak ? 

Jul. I have been thanking heaven 
That she is dead. 

Valore. His wits are gone. 

Alf. My Julian 
Look on me. Dost thou know me? I'm thy 

Cousin, 
Thy comforter. 

Jul. She was my comforter ! 
And now — But I do know thee ; thou'rt the 

king; 
The pretty boy I loved — She loved thee too ! 



SCENE I.] JULIAN. 91 

I'm glad thou'rt come to close my eyes. Draw 

nearer 
That I may see thy face. Where art thou ? 

Alf. Here! 

Jul. Poor child he weeps ! Send for the ho- 
noured dead 
Beside the city gate, — he pardoned me ! 
Bury us in one grave, — all in one grave ! 
I did not kill her. Strew her with white 

flowers, 
For she was innocent. 

Leanti. Cheer thee ! Take hope ! 

Valore. Raise up his head. 

Jilf. My Julian ! 

Jul. He forgave me, — 
Thou know'st he did ! — White flowers I No* 
thing but white ! [Dies. 

Leanti. He is gone. 

Alf. And I am left in the wide world 
Alone. My Julian ! 

TME F.Nft. 



EPILOGUE, 

WRITTEN BY T. A. TALFOURD, ESQ, 



SPOKEN BY MRS. ClIATTERLET. 



Is not her lot intolerably hard 

Who does this pious office for the Bard ? 

Who comes applauses not her own to win. 

Or pay the penance for another'ssin? 

To tack, lest gentle moralizers rail, 

A drawling comment to a doubtful tale ; 

To break with hollow mirth the sacred speli 

Which the poor poet rarely w eaves too well ; 

Or if his sorrows haplessly are laugh'd at, 

Look grave for wit to throw his closing shaft at, 

Methinks our Author's sex you shrewdly guess— 

" It is a Lady's Drama"" — frankly — " yes." 

Yet let no censure on her daring fall, 

When all " Life's idle business" is — to scrawl ; 

Our tender bosoms learn in songs to melt, 

And send their griefs to press — as soon as felt : 

No thought in lone obscurity decays, 

But dies a\v ay in neatly publish'd lays ; 

No lender hope can bloom and fade unseen, 

It leaves its fragrance — in a magazine ; 

The bashful heart whom deep emotions bless. 

Hides its soft secrets in the daily press : 



EPILOGUE. 93 

With hints of well-assum'd despair beguiles, 

And execrates mankind to win their smiles ; 

A woman sure, may claim no small compassion, 

Who has this plea — she's only in the fashion. 

O, if the fair's prerogative it be 

To watch supreme o'er calumny and tea : 

To slay an Author's hopes with daintiest sneers-, 

And change the fates of poets as of peers; 

Regard not her unwomanly who seeks 

To draw down sacred tears o'er beauty's cheeks. 

Who for her sex, by artless scenes, would keep 

It's dearest right — to weep with thosp that weep ; 

Who if to-night her humble muse hath brought 

To some sad heart a train of gentle thought ; 

On some worn spirit shed that blest relief, 

A generous sympathy with kindred grief. 

With joy returns to life's secluded ways, 

And asks no recompense of noisier praise. 



i>^ 



LI)Mg20 



LIBRARY 




